


DJ Sunflower Avenue Smuppet

by seranum



Category: Homestuck
Genre: ALL OF IT, Betty Crocker probably owns Reese's Pieces, Family, Fluff, Gen, Reese's Pieces, all the sap, sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 03:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seranum/pseuds/seranum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once you find the unlucky sap who wrote this piece of shit you are going to shove your katana so far up his asshole the only thing he’ll be able to compose for is commercial jangles for dolls covered in florescent neon colored bras.  Alternatively titled: Bro really likes smooth surfaces and also sleep is a thing he needs</p>
            </blockquote>





	DJ Sunflower Avenue Smuppet

**Author's Note:**

> there is never enough strider family stuff. never.

You like a life of self employment. It means you get to sleep in as long as you like, whenever you like, with nothing to distract you—  


"Bro?" You hear someone call in the distance. They don't sound like your mom or grandpop at all so back to comfortable warmth pillow sleep.  


"Five more minutes," you groan when you hear something metallic hit the floor. Is someone making death waffles?  


"Bro!" Would someone close the goddamn window for christ's sake?  


"BRO!" You flail and fall out of bed.  


Shit. Dave. Yelling.  


You scramble to get untangled from the blankets and burst out the door Kool Aid man style, shades crooked and hanging onto your face by a strand.  


Fuck. Dave is a noisy kid but he never yells shit shit shit—  


You skid into the kitchen with one of your swords equipped, ready to beat the crap out of the motherfucker that all up and invaded your home but all you see is Dave staring at you with the most condescending look you've ever had the honor of being blessed with, and you know a Lalonde.  


"What's the name of the street I grew up on?" he says and you blink. Unequip your sword and rub your eyes. Sit down at the table and let your head fall onto its soothing, cold wooden top. It's only seven thirty. You’re too old for this shit.  


"What."  


"The street! Also, what's the name of the first pet I had?" Dave looks at you as if you've ever had a living creature under your responsibility, much less a pet.  


"Uh. Sunflower Avenue. Lil Cal," you mutter into the table. It's hard but smooth and your face likes it very much. Maybe you could faze into it and become one with the furniture. Maybe then you could actually get some sleep.  
Dave makes an unhappy sound and you can imagine the small pout on his face. Ugh.  


"Lil Cal isn't a pet."  


"Well then smuppet."  


He makes a disgusted noise.  


"My DJ name is not going to be Sunflower Avenue Smuppet. There isn't even any I's in the words. It says--" the sound of a tiny finger poking cardboard "-- change all I's to Y's."  


You contemplate the pros and cons of taking your face off the table. When you start hearing sniffles you snap your head up, expecting waterworks and snot. He smirks (well, the best an eight year old can) when he sees you up. You've been duped by the old "damsel in tears" trick. The fucking bastard. You need to stop showing him The Housewives of Someplace or Another, he's getting crafty. Crafty is a big no-no. Crafty means passive aggressive strifes. You've had enough of those for a lifetime.  


You then notice the obnoxious brown and orange cereal box in his hand. Reese's Puffs, it says in bright mustard yellow font. Choc full of enriched flour and trans fat. Feed them to the brat and watch as they get diabetes and die. Fun for the whole family. The back is what he's interested in, however, instead of the hunk of chocolate and peanut butter being blasted into miniature pieces on the front.  


You grab the box and ignore his whine in favor of reading the crap all over the back of the box. There's a record player on the top left corner of the box and right in the middle is Mix Master in gritty grunge font, probably named Piss On Me or Hanging On The Edge on dafont.com.  


The thing in question is the circle on the top left with DJ Name Mixer in brown. It physically hurts to look at the directions.  


"This is bullshit." You hand Dave back the box and he throws a puff at you, which you catch with your mouth. Artificially flavored peanut butter. Yum.  


"No it's not." Yet Dave still bites his lip as he stares at it. "What's my favorite movie or supervillan?"  


"Black Beauty." You get up, bemoaning the loss of the wonderful, blessed table in your mind as you search for edible food. Oh look, a TV dinner.  


"No." Dave's curt reply makes you chuckle as you microwave your deep frosted mashed shit with shit steak and a hunk of dehydrated shit.  


"Fine. What about Moriarty?"  


"What?"  


"Nevermind." You smile. "The Joker?"  


Dave frowns. "No."  


"... I don't know, Loki?" You rack your brain for more super villains. This is harder than you thought.  


"Whozzat?"  


"I don't even know kid. I don't even know."  


You both frown.  


"Do I have a middle name? What's my middle name?" Dave asks all of a sudden and you groan.  


Fuck this shit. Fuck it up the hole it crawled out of. "Dick."  


"D-Man! That's my DJ name!"  


You let your head fall back onto the table along with your TV dinner.  


You get blessed silence for two minutes before you hear Dave scribbling on something. You look up again and see him writing on the box with a red marker. Where did he even get that?  


"That peanut butter chocolate I will confess is the flavor that I savor that I will address," he chants. "Reese's puffs, Reese's puffs, in your bowl, in your bowl!"  


Is this... No. No. It can't be. No.  


"Recognize the taste that I craver Reese's puffs Reese's puffs, wow peanut butter chocolate raver!"  


It is. You groan in hopes of covering up the sound of factory made shit rap.  


"So crucial to my eating verna... Vernaclur... Ver--"  


"Vernacular. You pronounce it vernacular."  


"Vernacular that peanut butter duo is oh so spectacular! Reese's puffs, Reese's puffs!" You hope the little fucker is happy. Your ears are bleeding. Your inner grammar nazi that never really faded away is dying. Each shitty rhyme chips away at your soul until there is nothing left, just ashes and wind left where you once had a heart.  


"Reese's puffs, Reese's puffs, in your bowl, in your bowl!" Silence for a beat.  


You flashstep over and snatch the box, ignoring his cries of "Unfair Bro!" and pull out your own orange pen from who knows where, writing furiously over the red scribbles courtesy of Dave.  


Ten minutes later you set the box down feeling proud. The rap is no longer shit. You have conquered Mount Everest. You have killed the final boss. You have—  


"That peanut butter chocolate sammich is the snack that I mack that makes bitches green jelly?" He looks at you with a deadpan expression. It has "What the fuck?" etched into every baby fat lined edge.  


"Shut up." You start shoveling cold shit with colder shit sauce into your mouth and glower at the plastic tray. He of all people should know that you aren't a morning person. Never expect quality at eight in the morning. That is Strider law.  


"Reese's puffs, Reese's puffs, in your bowl!"  


Fuck. You miss your bed.  


~wub wub time shenanigans wub wub~

  


Dave is slouched on the couch like the lazy thirteen year old he is. You don't think he notices it, but he's smiling as he scans his phone. You spot blue text with the occasional purple and those must be the two mysterious friends he always goes on about in his sleep. (He sleep talks like an emotional girl in every single young adult romance novel.) His smile grows larger when a message with green text shows up.  


It's been a while since you've seen Dave this happy. Not since the irony-cool-pokerface facade hit him when he turned nine. You know of his hero worship of you (of all people) and his efforts to imitate you; ironic quips 24/7, mixing music, taxidermy. It kind of killed the small chance he had of having a normal childhood full of sunshine and boogers, turning him into a Mini You. And as cool as that sounds in theory, it's pretty creepy in practice.  


But he's found his own way to stretch his stinky pubescent roots. Drawing shitty (but ironic) comics, taking hipster photos and developing them in his own little black room, and watching every single movie he can find, even if they suck. Unironically. You can kind of admire the masochistic drive to continue watching Nicolas Cage movies.  


Dave might not realize it, and you loathe to admit it yourself, but you are really, really proud of him.  


Doesn't mean you're not going to piss the fuck out of him either.  


"Reese's puffs, Reese's puffs, in your bowl. Reese's puffs, Reese's puffs in. Your. Bowl," you whisper into his ear as Dave chuckles and he chokes.  


"Fuck Bro let the damn thing go!" He shrieks, then turns red with the realization that he shrieked. You smirk as you flashstep away.  


"Not a chance D-man. Not a chance."  


As if you're ever going to let it go.


End file.
